The Thebaid
Page 53
made sacred by the misery of men.
The goddess never lacked for supplicants;
no prayer was ever censured or denied.
Whoever asked was heard, and night and day
one might approach and, merely by lamenting,
enlist the goddess. Rituals were few:
no flames or bloody rites or frankincense.
Tears soaked the altar, and above it hung
sad o√erings of women’s severed hair
and clothing left behind when Fortune changed.
Within its sacred, reverential grove
were laurels twined with wool and humble olives,
but e≈gies were lacking—no medallions,
no image of the deity who dwells
in human minds and animates men’s hearts.
She welcomes those in peril, and the poor
flock to a shrine the fortunate ignore.
• The story is that sons of Hercules
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founded this altar when the deity
(their father) died and they were saved in battle.
But fame falls short of truth; the facts are these:
the gods themselves, to whom the land of Athens
had always given hospitality,
hallowed a common forum as a refuge
for needy souls—just as they once gave laws,
a new man, sacred rites, and seeds that fall
on empty fields—so that the wrath and threats
of tyrants be kept distant and the altars
of justice be uninfluenced by Fortune.
Now countless nations worshiped at this shrine:
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those who lost wars, exiles from native lands,
those dispossessed of rule or charged with crimes
although they lacked intention. Such came there
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to seek asylum, an abode of welcome.
• It sheltered Oedipus from Furies once,
• protected the besieged Olynthians,
• and hid distraught Orestes from his mother.
Directed by the commoners, the band
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of Argive women anxiously approached,
and those unfortunates already there
yielded their places. Instantly their hearts
found rest and moderation for their cares,
just as the cranes that flee their native winds
• fill southern airs with joy when they see Pharos:
they love the gentle weather, taunt the snows,
and let the Nile assimilate their cold.
–?–?–?–
• After his bitter wars in Scythia,
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Theseus drove his laureled chariot
back to his native country. Joyful shouts
rang out; the peoples’ voices reached the stars.
Before him came the spoils of war and cars—
the image of the cruelty of Mars—
that women drove, and there were wagons heaped
with crests drawn by sad steeds and broken axes
the Amazons employed to cut down forests
• and chop Maeotis’ ice. They also bore
light quivers, fiery baldrics pocked with gems,
and blood-stained, half-moon shields the women used.
They did not tremble or admit their sex
or moan like rabble; they refused to beg
and only sought unspoused Minerva’s altar.
The leading passion of the people was
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to see the victor driving snow-white steeds:
nor did Hippolyta draw less attention,
as she, with kind regard, endured the bonds
of marriage. The Athenian women marveled—
they murmured and exchanged oblique regards—
to see her break her country’s rigid custom
by covering her bosom with her cloak.
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She hid her breasts, and she had trimmed her hair.
Although barbarian, she graced great Athens
and came to bear her warlike husband children.
The mournful Argives moved back from the shrine
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on which they had been seated to admire
the long line of the triumph and its riches
while thoughts of fallen husbands filled their minds.
When Theseus slowed his chariot enough
to lend an ear and ask them to explain
• what caused their prayers, the wife of Capaneus
responded boldly to his invitation:
‘‘O warlike son of Aegeus, Fortune gives
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you unsought paths to glory through our fall.
We are no foreign race; no common guilt
infects us. Home is Argos, and our husbands
were princes—also fighters, to our sorrow.
What was the point of raising seven armies
to castigate the city of Agenor?
But deaths are not the cause of our complaint;
such things occur; it is the law of war,
yet those who fell in battle were not monsters
from caves in Sicily or biformed Centaurs
from Ossa. I will spare you family names,
but they were men, and born of men, great Theseus!
They took their being under these same stars,
su√ered your common destiny, and ate
the food you eat. Now Creon outlaws flames
and bans their passage through the gates of Styx
as if he were the Lethean ferryman
or father of the Furies. He suspends
their ghosts between the poles of hell and heaven.
‘‘O Nature, source and origin! Where is
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the godhead, he who hurls judicial lightning?
And where are you, Athena? The seventh dawn
has risen, but your shy steeds shun the slain.
The brilliance of the bright celestial spheres
diminishes. Rays flicker. Savage beasts
≥∂Π STATIUS, THE THEBAID
and birds of prey avoid the noxious fare.
Fields waft fouled air that weighs the winds and skies.
Help us to gather bare bones, putrid flesh:
I do not think that very much survives.
?’’Athenians—good sons of Cecrops—hurry!
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Lay down the law—your cause is just—before
• Emathians and Thracians come to grief,
as well as any others who believe
in final rites and flames for those deceased.
We fought, but rage must end. Death blunts grim hatred.
We know your reputation for great deeds:
who else will limit Creon’s savagery?
• You do not leave your dead—foul Cercyon
• and Sinis—to wild beasts, for you decreed
• that even wicked Sciron be cremated.
Here you return with bands of Amazons
whose tombs, no doubt, still smoke along the Don—
so you enhance your triumph. Do this deed
for earth and hell and heaven. As you freed
from fear your homelands—Marathon and Crete—
do not distress old Hecale, who saved you.
So may Athena aid you in your wars
and sacred Hercules not envy your
actions, which equal his. And may your mother
see you triumphant in your chariot,
always and always, and may none of Athens
su√er defeat and beg, as I am doing.’’
She spoke, and all the women raised their hands
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in supplication and began to clamor,
• moving Neptunian Theseus to tears.
In righteous indignation he exclaimed:
‘‘What Fury caused this custom in that kin
gdom?
No one was so inclined when I left Greece
to seek the Euxine snows and Scythia.
What moved such madness? Ill-abiding Creon,
did you think Theseus beaten? I am here,
and do not think that I am sick of killing!
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My spear still thirsts for blood that should be spilled.
Let there be no delay! My faithful Phegeus,
turn your horn-footed steed and ride to Thebes.
Don’t hesitate! Say they must give the Greeks
their funerals and pyres or hear from me.’’
He spoke these words, nor did he let the wars
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or rigor of his travels interfere.
He spurred his men, and he renewed the weary,
just as a bull reclaims his fields and females
after a battle, but if forests echo
the chance arrival of some challenger,
he will prepare for battle, bellow, paw
the ground, and cover wounds with dust and dirt
because his head and neck drip from his hurts.
–?–?–?–
Athena struck the image of Medusa,
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the Libyan terror pictured on her shield—
she who protects her heart. Her serpents rose
at once and as a unit gazed at Thebes.
Even before the Attic army marched,
unhappy Dirce feared their trumpets’ cries.
Fresh from the Caucasus, the troops rearmed,
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and farming districts sent rude sons to war.
• They gathered—those who furrowed freezing Brauron,
• Monychia’s fields, or Marathon (not yet
• famed for her Persian conquest), or Piraeus,
where swaying sailors stand on solid ground.
These ranked themselves behind their leaders’ banners.
True to their native gods—hospitable—
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• Icarius and Celeus armed their squadrons,
• as did the rich groves of Aegaleos;
• verdant Melaenae; Parnes, fit for vines;
• and Lycabessos, best for brimming olives.
Frightful Alaeus marched, and he who plowed
• fragrant Hymettus and, Acharnae, you
whose ivy twists around ill-figured thyrsi.
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• Soldiers left Sounion, seen from far away
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by eastern sailors, there where Aegeus fell
into the wandering sea that took his name
when he was, by his ship’s false sails, deceived.
• Salamis sent her people, and Eleusis,
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the town of Ceres. They hung up their plows
• and went to war. Callirhoe sent those
whom her nine winding rivers circumscribe,
so too Ilissos, who watched Boreas,
• the Thracian rapist, snatch Orithyia,
but nonetheless concealed him on her shores.
• That hillside sent its people to the wars
where once the gods contended, till a tree
grew from the cli√s and cast its long, new shadow
over the ebbing seas. Hippolyta
would have gone too and led her northern troops
but the sure hope of her expectant womb
restrained her, and her husband recommended
that she retire from war and sacrifice
her well-worn quiver for a bride’s attire.
When Theseus saw his eager army shine
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with pleasing weapons, snatching kisses from
children who love them, and their brief embraces,
he stood in his high chariot to say:
‘‘You who defend the universal rights
and laws of men, prepare your worthy hearts
for this our enterprise, since it is clear
that Nature leads us, that we have the favor
of gods, men, and the silent ghosts of hell.
For their part, they enlist a band of Furies:
serpent-haired sisters lead the Theban banners.
March joyously, I pray, and trust our cause.’’
He spoke, then hurled his spear to start the march
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like cloudy Jupiter when he draws nigh
the north pole and, at winter’s first approach,
makes the stars tremble and sets Aeolus
at liberty. Then winter, whom long quiet
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has left indignant, whistles Arctic winds.
Then waves and mountains welter. Darkling clouds
battle. Mad lightning celebrates with thunder.
Beaten, earth groaned. Strong hooves upturned green
meadows.
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Trampled fields died beneath the countless waves
of men and horses, and their armor shone
through clinging clouds of dust, and from afar
it glistened and their lances gleamed through clouds.
Men added night’s soft shadows to their labors
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and vied to keep the army up to speed,
to see who, from some hill, would first spy Thebes,
whose lance would first attack Ogygian walls.
But far away Neptunian Theseus dwarfed
• his army with his great shield. It displayed
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the hundred cities and the hundred walls
of Crete—the origins of his renown—
where in the windings of a monstrous cave,
he twists a bull’s rough neck with both his hands.
His muscled arms constrain the animal;
he keeps his head withdrawn to dodge its horns.
Terror takes hold of men when Theseus,
armed with that fearsome image, goes to war,
for they see double hands, twice drenched in gore.
He broods upon his former deeds himself,
his band of comrades, the once fearful threshold,
• the clue he followed, Ariadne’s pallor.
–?–?–?–
Meanwhile that ru≈an Creon had commanded
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the widowed daughter of Adrastus and
Antigone to die. He chained their hands
behind their backs, but both of them rejoiced.
Proud, and in love with death, they stretched their necks
for execution, just as Phegeus brought
an embassy from Theseus. He extended
an olive branch in peace but his demand
was bellicose. He threatened and repeated
the words of his commander, making clear
≥Σ≠ STATIUS, THE THEBAID
that Theseus approached and that his cohorts
already covered intervening fields.
The Theban Creon wavered in some doubt;